


Lacunae

by TheWillowBends



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Lucifer (TV) Season/Series 02, Not A Fix-It, Post-Episode: s02e14 Candy Morningstar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 06:28:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19718077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWillowBends/pseuds/TheWillowBends
Summary: She supposes if happiness is out of reach, satisfaction will have to do.





	Lacunae

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arlome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arlome/gifts).



The closet is tight and stuffy and claustrophobic; she can feel the walls closing in around her, and she hates it, hates herself, hates him. His fingers are deft as they unbutton her jeans, long and elegantly manicured, and hunger tightens her center, exciting her. She thinks _this is stupid_ and _i'm an idiot_ , but there is also _God yes_ and _right there_ and _finally_ , and when his hand finally parts her zipper and slips under the hem of her underwear, working them down, she gasps and trembles and hates herself anew. At the very least, she could make this _difficult_ for him, if she had ever the esteem and integrity to desire it.

Before her, he is the perfect image of a gentlemen in supplication, face upturned and mouth sensuously parted. From his mouth, there is a murmur of tongues; he could be quoting scripture for all she cares, excerpts from whatever pornographic Bible of which he has been an endless study, but she just wants - she needs - she _desires_ -

"Detective," he breaths into her skin, and there is a sharpness to the word as he nips at her hip, nuzzles into her thigh. It feels like a knife in her belly, cold and unbearably cutting. When she swallows, she can taste blood on her tongue.

"Quiet," she bites out, gripping his shoulders. "I need you to - I just -"

He looks up at her, eyes fathomless and void, a universe of secrets she cannot parse. The nod he gives her is short, militant, and his mouth sets to a firm line and then - to work, and she quivers as the tip of his tongue traces a slick path to the crease of her thigh. It dwells there, warm and flexible and teasing, while his hand slides up, lightly brushing through the wire of neatly trimmed hair, before pressing on her stomach, firm and large and steady. She parts easily under his touch, almost sinfully eager, flexes her hips in anticipation as his mouth moves to her center, playing at the slit, and then finally - _finally_ \- slides home, his tongue smooth and muscular and _so good_.

Chloe gasps, she moans, she lets the sound snag in her throat as his tongue darts in once, deep and satisfying, before retreating to trace vertically to her clit. He circles her, slow and careful, almost ritualistic in motion and intent, completing its circumference with a firm suck that makes her hips buck; it leaves behind a sublime ache as he retreats, tongue insistent and penetrating. Her whine is breathy and high and humiliating. When he taps her knee, signaling for her to move, she hardly resists when he tucks it over his shoulder, opening her to him, wide and wet and ready, and they - and he -

She tries not to think as he eats her out, tries to make herself as hollow as the space he has left inside her heart after Candy - fucking _Candy_ ; she can't help but think of her now, Candy of Las Vegas and the bleach blonde hair and the fuck me pumps. Candy, the ex- _wife_ of a man who was never meant to be the marrying kind, who managed to snag him nonetheless, even if only for two weeks - but two weeks that mattered, two weeks that ruined everything - 

She can't help herself.

"Did you fuck her like this?" she croaks out, grinding her hips down on his face. The startled look in his eye when he glances up at her is equal parts infuriating and agonizing; his audacity is limitless, she thinks, a depthless pit with no bottom, a ground with endlessly sinking sand. As if Candy were some phantasmagoric specter, a mere echo of the past, dispatched cleanly by salt thrown over the shoulder. Chloe looks back, all right, and she sees the eternity like a long and thinning 'V' spreading out behind her, pockmarked with all of their mistakes, misunderstandings, all those misplaced dreams of something wondrous that she had held in her hands briefly before he fucked it all up. It is a reminder that hope goeth before the fall.

She sucks in a breath, holds the flame of her anger in her chest, refuses to break his gaze. "Did you fuck her like this?" she repeats, enunciating each syllable with hard savor, like candy that needs cracked between teeth. His tongue never stops even as he shakes his head minutely, swiping up again to flick at her clit rapidly, before letting the flat of it stimulate the sensitive space beneath it, teasing and sweet. And it is good, it is so _good_ \- bitterly so, as she thinks of Candy and Jana and Raj and who only knows how many others he has licked and sucked and fucked before her and will after. In her mind's eye, she sees the road narrowing before them to a finite point, a bridge they cannot cross, that is collapsing under them, in fact.

And it is a good thing he is a multitasker because she most definitely is not done yet, will not be for the while now. Her anger is fierce, it is hot and painful to the touch, but it is hers, and God knows when she will have him quiet again. "Was it the other way around, then?" she demands, and her voice hardly quavers. "Did she suck you off in the men's bathroom of some Vegas dive bar? Invite six of her friends for the show?"

She watches as his eyes narrow and feels him shift, but she grips him by the hair hard before he can pull back. It unravels under her fingers, the strands wildly thick, austerity traded for something artlessly mussed and disheveled. The sight is pleasing. He may hold court to a whole host of infernal delusions, but there is no kingdom here. In this cramped, sullen space, he is the one on his knees. There will be law here, and she will lay it down herself if she must.

Holding him there for the moment, she studies him hard, feeling as brittle as the edges he has given her. The effort tires her, leaving her empty, null; she never knows what she is searching for in him anymore, what hidden passage lies unseen in the myriad rooms of his heart. How they even got here, she cannot account, but for a blurred and hazy memory of yanking him into the evidence closet under the pretense of another goddamn kilo of coke gone missing on his watch, but really, it was the witness, and the way he had smirked at the woman when she had passed him her number. Chloe had been _right there_ \- right fucking there - and there was no hesitation, not even a pause. And then she was furious and sick with the stupidity of her own hope, that she was a thirty something single mother who had taken a chance against the worst odds, against a man who could not even give her an existence beyond five years of paper or a real name, and she - she wanted to cry, wanted him to see the damage he had done, but anger was so much _easier_ , she would keep these tatters of her pride if it was the last thing she did - and then he simply taken it, had not wasted an iota of her time arguing it, and it had shattered the glass separating that tsunami of feeling from the sensible woman she so desperately wanted to be. She raged and pushed and hated herself through every moment of it, hated herself more a moment later when she had shuddered into his hard kiss, the way he had looked at her helplessly and told her _This is all I can offer, Detective_ before he went down gracelessly before her. And she had let him because at this point, why the Hell not, he had said it himself she deserved better, and fuck if he didn't owe her one.

The moment stretches out long enough that it grows cold with discomfort, and she can feel the abrasive sting of his stubble, the wetness of her thighs, the ache of her dissatisfaction. For once, he is speechless, and if there was ever a miracle that was it - God's small favors, she supposes - as he looks up at her blankly, his face unassuming and wary. She flexes her hips, feels the burn of tense muscles, relaxes the hand she has upon him. "I suppose it doesn't really matter," she says finally, feeling oddly drained. Looking away from him, she lets her head fall back against the wall, eyes closing. "If it hadn't been her, it would have been somebody else." She grimaces, a spasm running through her clenched fist. "I knew what you were. I just forgot. That was my mistake."

The air is dry here, and it sticks in her lungs, each breath harder than the last. Something in there wants to catch in her throat, wants to release the sob she has so violently suppressed, but she cannot allow it - _will_ not allow it - to be his. Palmetto did not break her, and neither did Dan or Malcolm, and so Lucifer, too, she will survive. She will simply learn to carry this disappointment around with her the same as anything else, a cold case file she can never quite put away, paging through it in quiet moments to worry the edges of memories past, the hard lessons learned, the resolution always out of reach.

His breath is warm and moist against her thigh, and she can feel the words building in him, shaping an excuse, a reason, a story for which she no longer has the patience. "Detective," he starts, but she cuts him off, pressing her hands on his shoulders, smooths them over the perfect lines of his bespoke suit. 

"It's fine," she says, even though it is not. "Let's just..." Then she sighs and undulates her hips, rotating her pelvis and tensing the internal muscles in such a way that her arousal refocuses, sharpens, and regains its position of prominence, subsuming all other thought. She presses down on him, eager and wanting, simplifying her aim: this is what he can give, this is what she will take.

The sigh he releases is more relieved than anything, and she cannot help but agree as he gets back to work, kissing a path back up her thigh, over the sensitive folds of her vulva, and then diving back into her sex, warm and hungry. His mouth is everywhere, unbearably talented, painfully good; her breath hitches as the vise of her pleasure tightens, and the slow thrust of her hips is involuntary now, almost too much. She slaps a hand to her mouth as a whine escapes, holding in the sound as his hand travels up, slipping under her shirt to find a breast, his thumb brushing her nipple, rubbing gentle, firm circles. Then he moves in for the kill, his mouth latching on to her clit, sucking hard and with intent. There is no stopping the whimper that escapes as she grinds down, letting him feel the full weight of her, the wetness of her cunt. Her whole body is a live wire, running hot and electric, and the flood is rising within her, everything tightening in anticipation.

He may be good for nothing else, but she can trust him to give her this. Everything shakes for the want of it, her body trembling, her hands moving ceaselessly over him, his face, his hair - tracing the outlines of him, solidifying this moment in her memory for future reference, the one time he was dependable. This is all he can offer, and he does it so very well, for Jana and Linda and Candy and so many others to come, and if she reduces her expectations, her desires, her hopes into that limited space he can offer, it will be all right. They can move on from this, she can move on from _him_ , and things can return to status quo. She can box it up and tuck it away in the place where she stores all of the disappointments men have handed her over the years.

Thought begins to unravel, fraying at the edges as her control wanes, her body tensing and pulsing. She is so close she can almost taste it, can smell her sweat and sex in the air, acutely aware of the way her body sways to the rhythm he sets. At the precipice, she trembles, and he knows exactly what she needs: his fingers slide into her at just the right moment, there is the lightest touch of his teeth and - and she is falling, gasping, her whole body quaking and writhing, and it really is _so good_ , everything he promised and then some, and it makes her so terribly sad to know it cannot last, that she is coming only with intent of going, that further down the line there is another Candy waiting in the eaves to be fucked and sucked and made into another expensive mistake. That she came so cheaply to him is the worst of it, and she has to bite her hand to withhold the sob that rises traitorously in her throat because she will not give him that; she is the one who does the taking here.

She comes down slowly, the ache resolving itself into a warm and happy throbbing, the aftershocks of an earthquake that stirred the Earth but broke nothing. He licks her lightly through the finale, then places a soothing kiss on her clit, firm enough to make her jump, before smoothly rising to stand. His eyes take in the whole of her, all her pathetic, ragged parts, and then he moves to redress her silently and efficiently, practiced in his ease. The look on his face is inscrutable, but he is _hard_ , blatantly so, and she hates the desire that flares up in her, the want of reciprocation that could occur if she just forgave him, just let him in again, and hates also that she is the kind of woman who cannot.

Instead, she reaches out a hand, steadying herself on his shoulder and uses the same to push him away, out of the sphere of his potent influence, the magic he conjures with each panting breath. He lets her move him, and he leans against the desk, a devastating image of debauchery and desire, beauty and grief. The silence is heavy between them; she cannot bear it. It takes her a minute to find her voice, hoarse and unsteady, and she blurts out the first thing that comes to mind: "Wait a few minutes to leave behind me. The last thing I need is the entire office knowing about this." 

It sounds cold to her ears, but there are only embers left between them. She cannot look at him longer, refuses to, really, uncertain of the tensile strength of what inner steel she wields against him. Afraid that if she looks at him and sees regrets, sees that same helplessness in his eyes, she will fold and back again they will be at square one, having done and learned nothing, because there will always be Vegas and a Candy to which he will run when the world asks too much of him. And maybe he will say otherwise if she can bring herself to ask it, but between the two of them, he holds too many illusions as truth to pretend she still believes in him. When she opens the door to leave, he says nothing, and it is only the silence that follows her. In this way, she leaves as empty as she came.

She tells herself that it is a blessing, if ever she had faith in such a thing.


End file.
